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V o l . 3 . !Elast Hartford, Conn., May 4, 1864. No. 9.
I P O K T B Y .
For the Elm Leaf.
T l i o O l d T r o w t S r o o k .
Ob, well I remember the old trout brook
l ^ t iwiftly flowed at the foot of the h ill:
Oft hare I fished there, in some shaded nook.
When the sun shone brightly and all was still.
I eee the bright Arbutus flowers
That on its borders grew ;
The rocks, the dells, and shaded bowers.
That it goes winding through.
I see the old brown cot
That by the roadside stood.
And the old pasture lot.
Just beyond the wood.
Oh I many are the happy hours
That I have wandered there.
Catching fish or plucking flowers.
Beside that streamlet fair.
I long.to wander there again.
As in those days of yore.
Fishing for trout through sun or rain.
Waiting just to catch one more.
Then onward flow, thou brightsparkling brook.
Wending through the valley fair.
And perhaps again, with Hue and hook.
To thy banks 1 may repair.
L'. .•<. P.
--------- From the W*terb«ry American------ -
Tlie So u g o t th e B I u e -B ir d .
Would you know what the Spring-bird to me did
That beautiful bird of the azure wing ?
F o r I wondered he sang so sweet and clear,
When the wild March winds were whistling near :
*' I come from the shores of a sunny land.
From sweet rich vales by the soutli wind f;inned.
Where the leaves are green and the flower.- are {air:
I come from a land in its beauty rare.
I t was here, last year, 1 was rocked to rest—
Here, in this maple's south-built nest,
I have braved the cold and northern blast.
And ha\ e reached my native home at last.
'* It was in von grove that I wooed and won
My beautiful mate, when the setting sun
Had tinged the hills and mountains blue
With a crown of glory ever new :
I t was then she said she would go with me
To the warm, bright isles of a sunny sea;
I loved her not then as I love her now.
When she plighted to me her maiden vow.
“You can hear me sing at the early dawn.
When the sun first shines on the cold, gray lawn ;
Up here, on a bough of this leafless tree.
I will carol a morning song to thee
That thy gay light heart shall pause to hear.
I f thou’lt list to me with attentive ear—
And the lay that I love is the lay I sing,
A welcome sweet to the early Spring,
•‘This is why I came to your colder clime.
Ere the frosts had gone, and the Summer tune
Had come with her emerald dress and flowers,
And asked me to sing in her garden bowers.
There is One whom the stormy wmds obey.
He guided me over the cheerless way.
He guards me when aU is dark and drear.
Ana He will keep thee if thy faith be clear.
Thanks, thanks for thy song, oh birdie, dear!
There's many a heart that thy song might cheer—
A lesson sweet might be learnt of thee.
find thy pure and hea^ve n-t^au ght- m--e-l-o-d-y.
From the Advocate and Guardian.
Wliat we can do to Abate Grime?
The Executive Committee of the Prison
Association of New York make the following
gtatement in their Annual Report in regard
to the causes of crime :
“The steps in the downward road seem to
be generaUy as follows ; First, absence of
parental restraint and instruction; this, al­most
invariably, is followed, secondly, by
association with bad company; this, m like
manner, nearly always leads, thirdly to
Sabbath-breaking; and fourthly, to the
formation of intemperate habits; which
prepares the way for, fifthly, a connection
Wit£bad women; the expenses incurred by
tjiiq connection conducts to, sixthly, robbe­ry,
forgery, and ather crimes against person
and property.”
This certainly is a sermon in a nut-shell.
Let us bring out more clearly the downward
steps that the child of neglect will naturally
take unless rescued by some strong, out­stretched
hand. We would make it so plain
that every thoughtless, careless parent or
guardian may be roused to duty by the
sight of the bitter fruit they must taste in
the future, if unfaithful to their trust.
1, Absence of parental restrain' or in­struction.
2, Bad company. 3, Sabbath-breaking.
4, Intemperance. 5, Licentious­ness.
6, Theft, forgery, murder, 7, Im­prisonment
or death.
The case of young Green, whose recent
deliberate murder of a young man, for
money to meet the expenses of fast living,
illustrates this completely. Left by his
father to bunge about a tavern—which no
careful parent, who regards the highest
interests of his child, would think of allow­ing
a son to do—he learned evil ways and
fell into temptations which culminated in
the tragedy w hich sent a shudder through
every virtuous community in tlie land. Ke-spectable
people scanned each other’s faces
to see if mayhap a demon lurked within,
against which they must be on guard ; they
scrutinized cach other’s habits to see if they
were such as had a tendency to lead tiiem
downward : and resolved, more firmly than
ever, to resist the beginnings of evil, to ab­stain
from the appearance of ii, to guard i
tlicir children with jealous care.
So far, so good. Let each build up the
wall high and strong againtit his own house ; ■
but-then, let him help his weaker, perhaps i
helpless nei^rhbors. Such are children, who !
by degraded parents, are taught everything !
that is evil, nothing that is good ; who do !
not know the comfort of living in a pleasant, ‘
tidy room; to whom clean clothes would be !
an unheard-of luxury, whose associates arc 1
drunken, profane, and abusive ; who are
growing up in ignorance and fitting for
crime.
Some such we may have the happiness to
transfer to new’ homes, where they may be­come
loving and beloved. Many more we
may not be able to take from the evil associ­ations
that surround them, for the parents
w'ill want them to beg cold victuals and pen- ^
nies enough to supply the daily dram, but j
w'ecan let gleams of sunlight in upon their '
shadow^ed lives by gathering them into Sab­bath
and Industrial schools, where they can
gain the knowledge essential to happiness
here and hereafter. So w'e can try to coun­teract
the efi'ect of home neglect and bad
company. So, too will the numbers of those
who trundle hoops, fly kites, play marbles
and ball along our streets on the Sabbath,
be diminished now, and in the future the ;
number of those who seek their pleasure on
the Lord’s day.
And we have a duty in regard to temper­ance.
Let us talk it, and sing it, and live
it, and pray for it, that intemperance, that
deceitful thing that at last bites like a ser­pent
and stings like an adder, may die; not
alone shrink out of sight, but die. In eve­ry
hovel and prison we see its broad trail;
in many a palatial residence the tell-tale
blush shows that its poison has begun to
fever the blood and subdue to servitude the
proud and gay ; and in the spacious Inebri­ate
Asylum now being completed in this
state, we behold the legitimate fruit of li­censing
the sale of that “ enemy which
man puts in his mouth to steal away his
brains.”
And so ’tis found that the “ social evil,”
which we blush to designate even thus, yet
must, for the sake of the sweet womanhood,
the noble manhood, the ptire homes that
should be, is fostered by the last-named vice.
and that this again tempts to all other sins,
which lead to the prison, the gallows, and to
perdition. Is there nothing that good men
can do to abate this evil, nothing but to
guard their own fire-sides ?
We are sure one influential clap can, and
those are the publishers of daily papers.
They can purify their columns by banish­ing
from them medical advertisements “ of
a certain class,” and notices of obscene
books and cards. Let the poisoners of do­mestic
peace and purity, not find “ aiders
and abettors” in good men, for money’s
sake. No paper, we trust, is dependent on
their patronage for existence and prosperity,
and few publishers, we believe, sympathize
with them. They would not like to invite
them to their homes, to eee their sons and
daughters on familiar terms with them.
Let them not introduce them through their
publications to other household circles
equally dear to other parental hearts.
We can pursue the subject no farther;
but we trust enough has been said to lead
each one to look about and see what he or
she can do to diminish crime, for surely ev­ery
one can do something. Let us not “ be
found guilty concerning our brother.”
---------- ■ ^ ------
T l i c Si!!»coret.
There were two little sisters at the house
whom nobody could see w'ith mt loving, for
they .were always so happy together. They
had %.e ^me books, &nd the same play­things,
but never a quarrel sprang up be.
tween them—no cross words, no pouts, no
slaps, no running away in a pet. On the
green before the door, trundling hoop,
playing with Hover, helping mother, they-werc
always the same sweet teinpered little
girls.
“You never seem to quarrel,” said I to
them one day ; “Imw is it you are always
so happy together?”
They looked up, and the eldest answered,
“S’pose ’tis’ cause Addie his me, and / let
Addie”
I thought a moment. “Ah ! that is it,”
I said ; “she lets you, and you let her;
that’s it.”
Did you ever think what an apple of dis'
cord “ not letting" is among children ?
Just now, while I was writing, a great cry.
ing was heard under my window! I looked
out. “Gerty, what is the matter ?”
“Mary wont let me have her ball,” bel­lows
Gerty.
“Well, Gerty would n’t lend me her pen­cil
in school,” cried Mary, “ and I do n’t
want she should have my ball,”
“ Fie, fie ; is that the way sisters should
treat each other ?”
“ She shan’t have my pencil,” muttered
Gerty ; “ she’ll only lose it.**
“ And you’ll only lose my ball,” retorted
Mary, “and I shan’t let you have it.”
The “ not letting” principle is downright
disobligingness, and a disobliging spirit
begets a great deal of quarrelling.
These little girls, Addie and her sister,
have got the true secret of good manners.
Addie lets Rose, and Rose lets Addie. They
are yielding, kind, unselfish, and always
ready to oblige each other. Neither wishes
to have her own way at the expense of the
other. And are they happy ? 0 yes. And
do you not love them already ?
Red Oap Inn.
I remember well how strangely my boyish
feelings were excited at reading the narra­tive
of Raymond’s escape from the murder­ous
inkeeper, in Lewis’s romance of “ The
Monk.*’ His version of the story has near­ly
faded from my memory; but the circum­stances
upon which he founded it are said
to have occurred in Ireland, and, wild and
improbable as they are, you have them wr-batim,
as they are related upon the spot;
and, moreover, I am not to blame if you
think fit to believe them, inasmuch as I give
up my authority—and Lord Lyndhurst
himself could ask no more. My informant’s
name is Catharine Flynn.
As you go from Kilcullen Bridge to Car-low,
about three miles on your road there
staL-ds, and barely stands, a ruined house.
The situation has nothing particularly
striking about i t ; the country is open and
thinly cultivated, and a faint outline of hills
IS viiiblo in the distance.
Some seventy or eighty years ago it was
a substantial looking inn; the proprietor
was a farmer as well as an innkeeper, and
although no particular or satisfactory reason
could be assigned for it, beyond vague and
uncertain rumors, he was by no means a
favorite with his neighbors, lie had little,
indeed, of the Boniface about him; dark,
sullen and down looking, he never appeared,
even to a guest, unless when specially called
for, jjiuch lc5i: to a thirsty btother farmer
or laborer, passing his heavy, old-fashioned
door, to ask him to taste his home-brewed
ale or usquebaugh; yet the man was well
to pass in the world, and with the aid of
three or four hulking sous, and a heart­broken
drudge of a wife, managed his farm
and his inn, so as to pay his way at fair and
market, and “hold his own,” as the saying
is in the country. For all that there were
those wiio did not stick to say that more
travellers went to his inn at night than ever
lett in the morning; and one or two who
remembered him in his early days, before
he had learned to mask the evil traits of his
c laracter by sullenuess and reserve, would
not have taken the broad lands of the Geral­dines
of Leinster to pass a night in the best
bed room in his house;—no, no—they would
rather take chance in the Bog of Allen for
that matter.
A severe storm, liowever, compelled a
traveller to halt there one evening, although
he had originally intended to get further on
his journey, before he put up for the night.
Not that he had any suspicion of the place ;
on the contrary he thought it rather a com­fortable,
quiet looking concern ; and, turn­ing
from the lowering, inhospitable sky,
and wishing the pitiless driving sleet good
night, he rode into the inn yard, saying in
his own mind, “I may gj further and fare
worse.” Now I am of a very different
opinion.
It was late in the evening, and late in
the year—no matter about dates, I am not
particular. So the traveller (who, being a
merciful man, was merciful to his beast)
having seen his horse fed, and carefully
laid up for the night, thought it high time
to look after himself, as to both his outward
and iiiward man. Accordingly, throwing
his saddle bags over his arm, he walked
into the inn kitchen, in those days the most
comfortable winter apartment in the house,
to thaw himself at the huge fire, and give
the customary mandates concerning supper
and bed—to say nothing of a bottle of good
old w'ine, then to be found in every inn in
Ireland. This feat accomplished, away he
stalked to his own apartment—jack boots,
silver headed riding whip, cloak and all—
followed close by a terrier dog, who had
been lying at the kitchen fire when he came

V o l . 3 . !Elast Hartford, Conn., May 4, 1864. No. 9.
I P O K T B Y .
For the Elm Leaf.
T l i o O l d T r o w t S r o o k .
Ob, well I remember the old trout brook
l ^ t iwiftly flowed at the foot of the h ill:
Oft hare I fished there, in some shaded nook.
When the sun shone brightly and all was still.
I eee the bright Arbutus flowers
That on its borders grew ;
The rocks, the dells, and shaded bowers.
That it goes winding through.
I see the old brown cot
That by the roadside stood.
And the old pasture lot.
Just beyond the wood.
Oh I many are the happy hours
That I have wandered there.
Catching fish or plucking flowers.
Beside that streamlet fair.
I long.to wander there again.
As in those days of yore.
Fishing for trout through sun or rain.
Waiting just to catch one more.
Then onward flow, thou brightsparkling brook.
Wending through the valley fair.
And perhaps again, with Hue and hook.
To thy banks 1 may repair.
L'. .•